The Game of One
by GollyRodger
Summary: Hunters and angels never really did mix. And when Dean is captured by one with a universe-wide reputation for angel-killing, he knows he's landed himself in trouble. Alone and friendless, thrown out of his home by his own family, Dean becomes a pawn in a game where every creature is out for itself.
1. Chapter 1

Dean crawled his way back into consciousness. He was being supported in a sitting position. He leaned against Hadriel, not ready to open his eyes yet.  
Except this wasn't Hadriel. This person wasn't supporting him so much as pinning him, sitting down, as something stinging and cold clicked round his wrist. He tried to scramble away from whoever it was beside him. But he couldn't. His left hand was handcuffed to a railing. He yanked at it experimentally, then reached up to see if he could pull it open. His fingers stung when they met the metal. Looking closer, he saw that the surface was scarred with runes and symbols. Symbols that he knew were made to trap angels.

It clicked slowly that someone had been supporting him.

He looked up. He was surrounded on all sides. His senses told him they were all humans, but his eyes told him they were hunters. Men, women, tall, short, all with the same hostile expression on their faces. The man who had just finished cuffing his hand to the railing stepped back when he saw Dean was awake.  
He was tall, his hair dark and his eyes hard.

Dean blinked. Everything seemed slightly fuzzy around the edges. His head ached. His back was burning. He needed to... He needed to what? He shook his head. His thoughts were jumbled around, leaving him unable to think straight. Right. Start easy. Where was he? He had no idea. Shouldn't he be able to tell? He usually knew by instinct. And why did his head ache? Why did his back hurt? He felt something warm trickle down his back. Blood. Why wasn't he healing? He started to panic.

"Where am I?" He whispered. His mouth was dry. He swallowed.

"Who are you?" Asked the man.

"I-" Dean tried to think, "I'm an angel." He said at last.

"Yeah we figured that one out for ourselves, Wings. Who are you? What's your name?"

Dean frowned frustratedly. His mind was in turmoil. _Focus! _"Dean. My name is Dean."

He didn't see the slap coming. A sharp sting, then his free hand jumped to his face. The guy's face was red with anger. He was yelling something, but to Dean, it was just a jumble of sounds. He put his hand over his ear. Finally, the sounds trailed to a stop. The man was staring at him, breathing heavily.

A woman next to him gently put her hand on his arm. "John, calm down."

He nodded briefly after a moment, then turned his attention back to Dean. "Why are you here?"

Dean blinked. "I don't know." He realised.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" John demanded.

"I can't remember. I can't-" Dean rubbed his head distractedly.

John drew something put of his pocket: a knife. The angel eyed it warily.

"Alright, John. Take this somewhere else. I'm not gonna have angel blood splattered across my floor. It was a hell of a job to clean off the last time." The woman had cut it in again.  
John glared at her, then conceded with a nod. "Get up, Wings." Dean rose shakily. The room swam around him. He leaned against the wall for support. Dimly, he was aware of someone cuffing his hands together. Then he was shoved out the diner door into the world outside.


	2. Chapter 2

"Keep an eye on him. If he tries anything, you stab him with this. Understand?" John handed a knife to a boy who looked a few years younger than Dean. Dean eyed them both suspiciously. They were standing in a parking lot, next to a old-fashioned black car. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala, by the looks of it.

The cold air had helped clear his head, meaning he was starting to recall what had happened. And wishing he couldn't. He pushed away the memories. He couldn't think about that now. What was important was to work out the situation he was in now.

He was in the deep end this time. The handcuffs on his wrists prevented him from using any of his powers. He didn't know how much damage had been done to his wings. Frankly, he didn't want to know. But no doubt he would soon find out. Hopefully, the blood wouldn't show through his dark jacket

If looks could kill, Dean would already be dead by now. John was looking murderous. If it hadn't been for the bartender's plea to leave the premises, he was sure his body would be lying in a ditch three miles away. Maybe it soon would be.

He needed to get out of here quick. Just as he started inching off to the side, the conversation stopped. Sam, the boy, opened the door and nodded stiffly at Dean to get in. Dean considered refusing and making him use force, but decided there was no point. He slid in, balancing awkwardly with his hands chained together. Sam waited patiently, then got in the other side. They both glanced at each other, full of equal parts hostility and curiosity, then looked away.

Dean leaned his head against the cool window and closed his eyes wearily. The vibrating rhythm of the engine started to lull him to sleep... He jolted awake. Since when did angels need sleep?

A tiny, niggling thought crept into his mind. Maybe what had happened last night had made him...human. He shivered, driving any notion of rest from his mind.

Sam looked at him oddly, his hand going to his knife.

_Dring dring! _The noise of a phone going off cut through the moment. Sam picked up. "Hello? Um its for you, Dad. Calls himself Gordon."

John pulled the car over so hard, they nearly went into the ditch.

He grabbed the phone off his shocked son, opened the door, and rushed out. Dean watched him yelling at someone on the phone some distance away.

Presently, he became aware of a pair of eyes fixed on him. He turned around to see Sam gazing inquisitively at him. He put on his best hostile glare and scowled back.

"What're you staring at?"

"Nothin'. I was just wondering who your vessel was, before you took him over."

_Oh typical human. So judgmental._

"This isn't a vessel." Muttered Dean cryptically, knowing how the half-answer would annoy the boy.

The kid seemed to realise Dean was just baiting him, and asked no more questions.

Dean turned his attention back to the hunter on the hard shoulder outside. He was pacing now, gesticulating angrily. A few more minutes passed, and John finally snapped the phone shut, and turned back to the car. He ripped open the door on Dean's side.

"Out, Wings."

Dean manoeuvred out, stumbling as he was unable to balance without his hands free. The minute he was out, John forcefully shoved him to the ground. His knees hit the concrete with a crack.

John coldly placed the barrel of a gun on his forehead. "Say goodbye, Wings. Looks like you just turned out to be more trouble than you're worth."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to control the shaking. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die.

"Dad! What the hell are you doing?" Sam advanced on his father, fists clenched. "You said we needed him for questioning!"

Dean felt something warm and wet run down his forearm. He glanced down. The bullet had not entirely missed its mark. It had dug into his arm above his wrist. He twisted in his handcuffs, trying to stop the bleeding. He ended up cradling it to his side, the fabric of his shirt soaking up most of the blood.

When Sam finished yelling at his father, he returned to Dean's side. He knelt down beside the angel, yanking his arm free to examine it. Dean yelped, as the human's long fingers came in contact with the wound.

"Let me see it." He commanded.

Dean gave up. Resistance was futile anyway. The hunter was stronger than him in his present state.

He felt Sam's fingers gently prising his arm open. He tried to pull it away. The wound was not healing as it ought to be. Instead, he could feel blood pooling stickily in his half-closed hand.

Sam grimaced, but it was evidently not the first, nor the worst, bullet wound he had ever seen.

"Wait here. I'll go get the bandages from the car." He said, climbing to his feet, and hurrying off round the other side of the Impala.

John was standing a few meters away, just staring at him, not moving, saying nothing.

Dean ignored him. His whole being was focused on keeping it together. He had so had questions. He felt confused. Why weren't the wounds healing? Why did he feel so exhausted? He was scared. He didn't understand.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean closed his eyes frustratedly, trying to shut the sound out. The two humans were yelling at each other again, voices mingling and clashing in the cold morning air.

He didn't want this. He didn't want these humans. He didn't want the chains that had burnt red rings around his wrists. He didn't want the sticky blood congealing on his forearm. He didn't want the ultimate loneliness that was threatening to shove him over the edge.

_No. Stop whining_. He heard the voice of his mentor, Hadriel, in his head, commanding him sternly. _Get yourself together. Complaining about your situation won't help you. Analyse it. Work out what to do next. _

Alright. He could do that. First of all, who were these humans? Hunters, obviously. The older one seemed to hate him. He could see the loathing blazing in his eyes whenever he looked at him. The younger one - he wasn't so sure. He held contempt for the angel, sure. But he lacked the raging, violent _hatred_ that his elder possessed.

The gun. He could feel the hum of celestial steel even from a few meters away. John was holding it, gesturing angrily with it as he argued with his son. The gun itself was normal. The bullets were another matter. They would have killed him. How did the hunters get hold of them?

As it was, the one lodged in his arm hurt like hell. Celestial metal explained why it wasn't healing. But it didn't explain why he was tired and dizzy, all things an angel never experienced.

What was happening to him?

He wriggled uncomfortably against the cuffs. But they were too tight, and would not slip an inch.

Finally, Sam came back. He looked angry. "Get up." He ordered abruptly.

Dean struggled up, shaking Sam's hand off his shoulder.

"Lets get to the car and I'll fix the wound." Said Sam, aloofness colouring his tone.

"Ouch!" Dean snarled.

Sam ignored him, but continued probing the wound with a pair of tweezers.

"Ouch!" Dean snapped again.

"Stop moving." Responded Sam harshly. He finally got hold of the bullet, and yanked it out, drawing a muffled curse from Dean. He swiped away the blood with an antiseptic wipe, then wrapped a bandage around his arm. "All done. Now get in the car. Dad? We're done here."

The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife. Sam was staring straight ahead, refusing to even glance at Dean, his expression steely. John had his eyes glued on the road. Dean wondered what had gone wrong.

Finally, he decided to speak. "So where are we going?" He asked.

No one answered. Sam frowned slightly, but otherwise, there was no response.

Dean gritted his teeth in frustration, then tried again: "Where are we going?"

John replied, his voice flat. "I swear, Wings, if you say another word, I'll pull over right here and put a bullet through your brain, no matter what Sam says."

Dean clamped his mouth shut, but shot a ferocious glare at the older man.

The hours passed, and Dean just stared resentfully out of the window at the scenery flashing past.

Finally, the car pulled off the highway into a muddy track, that was littered on either side with all manner of rubbish: metal parts and rusty old cars. They drew into a yard, scattered with similar trash.

The door was opened by a short, stocky guy in a baseball cap and a beard. He saw Dean, and stared.

"I told you before, Winchester, I'm not havin' you bringin' no angels into my house."

"This is different, Bobby." Interjected Sam.

"We'll tell you inside." John cast a suspicious glare around the junkyard.

Bobby scowled, but stepped aside to let them in. Dean tripped a little on the threshold, but was steadied by Sam's hand on his shoulder. _Damn these stupid handcuffs. _He kept his head down, avoiding the older hunter's hostile eye.

They hurried through to a dusty, cluttered old sitting room. Suddenly, a few feet into the room, Dean hit a hard, invisible surface in the air in front of him. He stumbled back, wobbling uncertainly. He had smacked his head, and white stars were exploding in his vision. Someone caught him, steadying him. Gradually, the stars disappeared, and he opened his eyes. He wanted to say something, but his mouth wasn't working properly. He blinked rapidly. _Stupid...Stars...Couldn't see a damn thing..._

"Hey, kid. You just hit the edge of the trap. You ok?" A rough, concerned voice asked.

"Yeah." He lied. He opened his eyes fully, and stared at the air in front of him. Balancing carefully on one foot, he kicked thin air. Except it wasn't thin air. His toe connected with a hard, unyielding surface.

"Angel trap, boy. You ain't goin' anywhere fast with that." It was Bobby who had spoken. Dean looked up. On the ceiling was painted a circle inscribed with lines and symbols, some of which he recognised from the pretty bracelets on his wrists. He nodded at the hunter. He'd heard of angel traps, of course. His brothers and sisters back home had sometimes talked about them, always with a note of irritation in their voices. He'd never seen one, but then he'd never really spent much time in the company of hunters. At least not since he became an angel. He didn't remember anything from before that.

The other hunters filed around him, and sat down on the sofa opposite. All eyes were fixed on him. Seeing the barrier extended around him in a seamless circle, he turned his full attention on them.

They were all as different as chalk and cheese. Sam was the tallest, his lanky form leaning forward in his seat. His hazel eyes were bright and intelligent, overshadowed by shaggy brown hair. Bobby was much shorter. His face was creased and lined by years of pain and loss, yet Dean sensed he had a good heart. John. Burning animosity crawled behind his dark eyes. He looked strained, as if he would much rather be carving out his captive's heart than asking questions.

"Sit down. You're going to be here for while." John was speaking. Dean remained standing stubbornly.

"Look, you do what we say, and answer our questions, and we take off the handcuffs. Ok?" Said Sam. Dean considered the offer. It did sound good, getting rid of the stupid things.

He sat down.


End file.
